


I See Fire

by neverminetohold



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark, Family, Friendship, Gen, Mercy Killing, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Timeline What Timeline, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 12:22:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1186163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverminetohold/pseuds/neverminetohold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil paid the stench of charred flesh and sulfur no heed, kept moving in his search for survivors, hoping against reason to find some he might offer more than a quick death. - Dale and Erebor were no more, the lines of Girion and Durin broken...</p><p>OR: Kíli chews on Thranduil's hair. Because this was meant to be fluff...</p>
            </blockquote>





	I See Fire

_I see fire, inside the mountain_  
_I see fire, burning the trees_  
_I see fire, hollowing souls_  
_I see fire, blood in the breeze..._

  
The air was smoldering, each lungful bitter.  
  
Thranduil paid the stench of charred flesh and sulfur no heed, kept moving in his search for survivors, hoping against reason to find some he might offer more than a quick death.  
  
They had set out to hunt spiders in the morning, protecting the Woodland Realm and its borders from the ever-spreading taint of Dol Guldur, and found another's slaughtered game instead.  
  
Dale and Erebor were no more, the lines of Girion and Durin broken.  
  
Smaug had descended on the Lonely Mountain and its surrounding plains, devoured both with flames of greed and bloodlust, lured from the North by the gleam of gold and thrice-cursed Dwarven pride.  
  
What was left of the once great kingdom was shrouded in smoke that billowed from the destroyed main gate towards a thunderous sky, dark clouds lined with green and lightning. No rain would fall to stir the knee-deep ash nor cool the puddles of molten armor; none that had tried to escape had come far.  
  
Hands reached for the Elvenking, cracked skin weeping clear liquid, torn with blind straining as the hem of his robe brushed what had seemed a lifeless corpse, curled over a smaller one.  
  
Thranduil's lips moved, the words of prayer unwieldy on his tongue. His fingers curled tightly around his dagger that dripped red, marking his way as another voice fell silent.  
  
There was no solace to be found here, only mercy, granted Men and Dwarves alike.  
  
Thranduil did not rest for hours, wandering the gently rolling hills turned wasteland, focus firmly on the here and now, lest he lose himself in memories. His heartbeat pulsed through the ruin of his face, as if the marrow itself remembered the lick of dragon fire, leaving him raw and weary.  
  
Tauriel walked beside him, steps silent on broken earth, true and steadfast in her service despite her youth, never straying too far. Tears ran down her cheeks and Thranduil felt envy, for he had none left to shed for the fallen, had spent his long before her birth.  
  
He looked up from dull blue eyes he had closed with a gentle touch, tensing at the sudden shift in the air, the hush before a storm. He could feel the glancing pressure of magic, acidic and alien.  
  
It was time to retreat in the direction of Dale. They were few, a dozen, and Thranduil would not risk his kin so carelessly against the wrath of a dragon. One misstep could draw it from its claimed hoard and he would not endanger them further, would rather give up on the chance to ease the passing of more souls.  
  
“Tauriel.”  
  
Brittle bones snapped underneath her weight as she stopped and turned to face him, her green cape stained with streaks of wiped off fluids, auburn hair sticking to her temples. She had grown in mere hours, aged in the only way their kin could, and Thranduil recognized the change with regret.  
  
“My Lord?”  
  
“Recall the scouts,” Thranduil ordered. “Smaug will sense our presence if we dare venture any closer.”  
  
XXX  
  
“What happened?”  
  
Galion, kneeling in the remnants of a warehouse that the careless swipe of a tail had torn open straight to its foundation, rose to his feet and greeted his king with a bow. His hand was wrapped in a torn sleeve, the once white cloth stained with blood and dirt.  
  
“I have found a child, a dwarfling. He appears to be unharmed,” Galion answered, pale eyes returning to the spot he had watched when Thranduil and Tauriel joined him. “He bit me.”  
  
It was not the incredulous tone nor humor that made Thranduil's lips twitch. One survivor. The prospect was not enough to give rise to even the faintest flicker of joy.  
  
He stepped closer, mindful of the crumbling walls that would soon enough collapse, and saw a mop of dark hair, not fully hidden behind an overturned shelf. Shards of glass sparkled in the first rays of sunlight and a sweet smell hung in the air: preserved strawberries and peaches. He could hear quiet sniffling as he concentrated, and felt another's fear.  
  
“He must be terrified,” Tauriel murmured, gaze far away. To witness the demise of his people and all he held dear... She hoped he was too young yet to fully comprehend. “Poor soul.”  
  
“We must leave.” Galion was not known to be callous, but practical-minded by nature. “The dragon might well decide that it is not content with its treasure. We stand no chance against a Fire Drake.”  
  
“We will not abandon the child,” Thranduil said sharply, knowing that his friend had meant no such thing.  
  
Galion's touch at his wrist was kind and familiar, an offer to share both strength and burden. “Of course not.”  
  
“Though we might need to use gentle force to get him out of there.” Tauriel's lips thinned. “We are strangers, not privy to the secrets of his kin. It is doubtful that we can gain his trust.”  
  
“I will try.” Thranduil gave Tauriel his dagger and wiped his hands of blood. “Galion, go and get our horses.”  
  
XXX  
  
Thranduil crouched down amidst smashed pottery, rubble and marmalade, keeping a careful distance from the child he had come to try and retrieve. The boy was staring at him, wide-eyed, but did not try to bolt.  
  
He had never before met a Dwarven child, for they were sheltered fiercely by their elders. Still, this one seemed peculiar: his facial structure was almost delicate and hair fine, with only one simple braid. He was also less stout than one would expect, his homespun tunic, adorned with silver runes, fit him ill.  
  
“My name is Thranduil, young one, and I am at your service,” he said in Westron. “I apologize if my friend scared you. We wish to help.”  
  
The boy looked doubtful, but there was a flicker of recognition as he heard words spoken in a language he had started to study. He swallowed nervously and licked his chapped lips, before he mumbled something in Khuzdul.  
  
To Thranduil's ears the sounds were guttural and harsh, devoid of meaning. His knowledge of the secret Dwarven tongue was limited at best, bits and pieces overheard in Doriath and Erebor.  
  
“I cannot understand you, child.”  
  
Now the foreign words sounded confused, hitching and stuffy nosed with a hint of fresh tears. The boy hunched his shoulders, and as the sleeve of his blue tunic rode up, Thranduil noticed finger-shaped bruises around his wrist.  
  
“I need you to come with me. It is dangerous here.”  
  
The boy looked wary and scooted backwards. Perhaps he remembered stern lectures given, warnings not to associate with outsiders, those who were deaf to the stone and grew no beards.  
  
Thranduil heard the soft nicker of approaching horses and resigned himself to act.  
  
It was then that a ray of sunlight made it through the clouds and broken roof. The gleam of silver-thread caught his attention. - The runes repeated themselves, two only, the word for 'wedge'...  
  
“Kíli.”  
  
The boy's head shot up. It should not have made a difference, a name, such a simple yet powerful thing. But Thranduil found himself with a child in his arms, that clung to him with icy fingers and shook like a leaf.  
  
XXX  
  
Thranduil tightened his hold on the child that sat before him in the saddle, pulling him back against his chest as Kíli squirmed, uncomfortable so high up on a horse that was taller than any pony he was used to.  
  
He was also tired, had exhausted himself with tears that stained soot-streaked cheeks. He made a noise of protest, bumping his head against Thranduil's chin as he tried to rise.  
  
“No. Sit still or you will fall.”  
  
“I can take him, my Lord,” Tauriel offered, coming up beside them on her dun mare, leaving her post as scout to Galion while the others brought up the rear. “Would you like that, young one?”  
  
Kíli made a hissing noise that made his thoughts on the matter quite clear, and returned to his fascination with the Elvenking's golden hair. Some strands ended up in his mouth, others with crude attempts at making a braid.  
  
Thranduil did not object to this treatment. The child was very young, after all, though it was hard to determine his age or how it related to the growth of Elves. It did not matter; Kíli would be well cared for.  
  
At the top of the hill, Thranduil turned for a last glance. Erebor's gleam was painful in the rising sun. The molten granite had solidified on the mountainside, a giant mirror, reflecting fast moving clouds.  
  
At its heart rested a dragon, buried in gold.

**Author's Note:**

> Semi-fill of sorts for this prompt (http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/4373.html?thread=8919317#t8919317) on the Hobbit Kink Meme on Livejournal.


End file.
